


Spirits Through the Leaves

by Piscaria



Category: Charles de Lint - Newford series
Genre: F/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:xenacryst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after "Ghosts of Wind and Shadow," Lesli is a university student with a good job and a boyfriend who loves her. However, she's never worked up the nerve to tell him why her mother was institutionalized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirits Through the Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This story is based upon Charles de Lint's short story "Ghosts of Wind and Shadow." It takes place five years after that story, but before the events in _The Onion Girl._
> 
> Many thanks to my husband for the quick beta.

"That glass won't fill itself," Jilly said, stepping neatly around Lesli, who stood behind the bar's counter, a wine cork in her hand and an empty glass on the oak counter in front of her. Jilly stood on her tiptoes to pull a bottle of Pinot Noir from the top shelf, and Lesli shook her head to bring her mind back to the present, away from the garden table where she and her mother had eaten lunch earlier that day.

"Sorry," Lesli said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. When Lesli had arrived for her first shift at the Temple Bar last month, she'd been shocked to find Jilly Coppercorn behind the counter, her wild curls pulled back into a messy bun and a flowered apron cinching in her usual baggy clothes. Jilly was an old friend of Lesli's foster parents, Meran and Cerin Kelledy, and a frequent visitor at their house on McKennit street. Like many of Meran and Cerin's artist friends, Jilly paid the bills through various waitressing jobs. The last time Lesli had talked to her, nearly six months before that unexpected meeting at The Temple Bar, Jilly had been working at a hole in the wall on Battersfield Road called Kathryn's Cafe. But The Temple Bar gave her better hours, Jilly explained, and besides, it was closer to her loft. Once the shock of her presence wore off, Lesli had found that she liked working with Jilly. Although older than Lesli by a good ten years, Jilly never talked down to Lesli or treated her like a kid. Maybe it was just that Jilly looked so young herself. Her wide, electric blue eyes gave her a constant, slightly-shocked expression, and her scruffy clothes and wild hedgerow of tangled curls wouldn't have been out of place in some of the more Bohemian crowds at Butler University, where Lesli studied music. Still, Jilly _had_ first known her as a teenager living at Meran and Cerin's house, and Lesli wanted to work hard, lest she remind Jilly how much younger she was. Spacing out at the counter wasn't a good way to do that.

"Are you all right?" Jilly asked as Lesli opened the wine with a practiced turn of the corkscrew. Lesli nodded, staring down at the glass so that Jilly couldn't see her face. Jilly pursed her lips, apparently unconvinced, but then a group of boisterous college students spilled in, saving Lesli from further questions. Jilly settled the bottle of Pinot Noir onto the tray of cheese and fruit she'd been carrying and hurried off. For the next two hours, they were too busy to talk at all.

It wasn't until they'd closed for the night and were wiping up the tables that Jilly turned to Lesli with a fixed look in her eyes.

"Spill," she said.

Leslie swallowed. "I had lunch with Mom earlier today," she admitted.

"Oh?" Jilly's voice was carefully non-commital. Jilly knew that Lesli had moved in with the Kelledys after her mother's mental breakdown. Lesli still visited her once a week at the mental hospital.

"I told her about Andy."

"She didn't know?" Jilly sounded surprised. "You two have been together for awhile now."

"Almost a year," Lesli agreed. She touched the ring on her finger and a slight smile came to her face, despite the seriousness of her thoughts. It was a silver ring with a winged pixie on it. Andy had given it to her for their six-month anniversary. He knew how much she loved faeries. "We're talking about moving in together."

"Was your mom upset?" Jilly asked.

"She was happy for me," Lesli said, moving to a new table. "She wants to meet him."

"Well that's great," Jilly said, bending down to retrieve a napkin that a customer had left on the floor.

Leslie shook her head, scrubbing the glass table-top a little harder than usual. "No, it isn't."

"I guess I don't see what the problem is," Jilly said as she stood.

Leslie swallowed. "I haven't told him yet. About her."

* * *

From Lesli's diary, entry dated September 19th:

I can't sleep, diary, so I slipped on some clothes and crept outside so that I wouldn't wake Amber up with all of my tossing and turning. I think she was surprised to see me come home this evening. I've been spending the nights with Andy, lately. He asked me to stay again tonight, but I told him that I had too much homework. If I saw him, you see, he'd know that something was wrong, the same way Jilly did.

She couldn't believe I hadn't told him yet. I couldn't really explain it to her. Hell, I can't explain it to myself. Having a mom in a mental hospital is a pretty big secret to keep from your boyfriend.

It's cold tonight. Our long Indian summer is fading off, and it's finally starting to feel like fall. I'm writing this by lamplight at a bus stop in Crowsea, with only a few old oak trees to keep me company. Their leaves are just starting to turn. I'm humming that tune Cerin taught me, the one that's supposed to charm me invisible. It might be working: two winos just stumbled by, holding onto each other's shoulders to keep upright; they didn't pay me any attention. But then, I'm not sure they can see much of anything, drunk as they are. It's funny -- a few years ago, I would have been terrified to be out here by myself. I got kidnapped from Fitzhenry Park in broad daylight, after all. Who knows what could happen at night? But I'm not the fifteen-year-old girl who ran away from home so many years ago. These days, I'm not scared of much, not so long as I've got my flute in my shoulder bag and an oak tree in sight. I'm not scared of much, that is, except for talking to Andy.

Don't misunderstand me, diary. I'm not afraid that he would leave me because of mom. Andy's not like that. I'd never love him if he were. But he'll be upset that I kept this from him for so long, and he'll want to know why. And . . . I can't tell him. I'm not sure I know myself.

It's been almost a year since that night we became a couple. I'd known him before then, of course -- we were both part of a group of music students who gathered together for drinks and the occasional concert. That night we were at the coffeehouse and a Cape Breton fiddler had come through town. I was in pretty bad shape that night. Dad had just told me that he'd met somebody else. That he was divorcing Mom. I was pretty shaken up. Some naive part of me had assumed that when he'd said, "For better or for worse," he'd meant it. By then, I'd learned that happy endings are only in stories, but still, I kept hoping that he'd stay by her side and help her to get better. A stupid hope, I know. Dad's never been good at being there for people; even when Mom was healthy, he was away on business trips half the time. Then, after her breakdown, he was getting ready to ship me off to boarding school before Meran and Cerin offered to let me live with them. I'm not mad at him for it. Not exactly. I guess I was disappointed. I'd worked hard trying to bridge that distance that separated me from my family, starting with Mom, because she was the closest, and the one who'd been hurt the most from our dissonance. It bothered me that he wasn't willing to make that same effort.

So I was pretty upset that night, but trying to hide it. I thought I was doing a good job. My little group of friends can get pretty wild when we're all out together, and we were drinking in our laughter just as much as the beer. I was smiling, friendly, chuckling at all of the jokes, but when that fiddler stepped onto the tiny stage near the door and touched his bow to the strings . . . well, let's just say that when the dry October leaves rustle up and dance in the wind, it's like they're listening to the song of that fiddle, and I think some part of me got lost, or maybe found, that night. Tears stung my eyes before I even realized that I'd stopped laughing, and I stumbled away from the table, mumbling that I needed to use the bathroom.

Outside, I leaned against the brick wall of the coffee shop, wrapped my arms around myself, and cried for the family I'd lost and the family I'd gained in Meran and Cerin, for the stupid, naive girl who'd run away from home, and for the happy endings that I used to believe in. The music danced through the open door of the coffee shop, tugging my heart along with it. I felt like my world constricted to just me and the music, and who knows, it might have lifted up like a bubble and floated away with the sound of that fiddle if Andy hadn't come out looking for me.

People talk about love at first sight. I'm not sure if it's true. I'd seen Andy lots of times before that night: tuning his guitar in class, sitting at a cafe table with a group of our friends, sitting next to me with a glass of beer in his hand. But when his hand closed on my shoulder and I looked up into his eyes, I felt like I were seeing him for the first time. For the first time, I realized how blue his eyes were -- not electric blue like Jilly's, but the soft, stormy blue of the sea before a storm. They shone like water, and it took me a second to realize that it was because he was crying too. We stood together outside the coffee shop, crying to that heart-wrenching music until the fiddle went silent and only the echo of it remained in our hearts. We both glanced down, and realized for the first time that we were holding hands. Since then, there hasn't been a day I haven't thought of Andy. I know it sounds silly and sappy to write this, but I feel like he completes me somehow, like I found some missing piece of my soul when I looked into his teary eyes that night. It terrifies me to think of shaking up what I have with him. But maybe it scares me more to think of sharing that last bit of myself with him, of opening up to him and waking up someday to realize that I don't know him anymore, that he's just as much a stranger to me as my family is.

* * *

Lesli closed her journal and sighed, looking up at the moon. Her legs were starting to cramp from sitting on the cold bench. She stood and stretched, remembering the strains of fiddle music, heard once, and never forgotten. Not wanting to return to the cramped apartment she shared with Amber, she wandered across the street, to where the oak trees stood in a cluster. Oaks always reminded her of the Kelledys. She longed to see them, suddenly, to rest her head on Meran's shoulder and ask Cerin for advice. But they were out of the country now, touring Wales with a group of Irish musicians. They wouldn't be home until next month. Lesli rested her hand on the trunk of the nearest oak tree, and closed her eyes.

"Wherever they are right now, tell them that I love them," she said.

If the oak heard her, it gave no response. This late at night, even the little acorn men who usually scrambled over oak roots were asleep. The bars had all closed hours ago, and the street was empty. Longing, suddenly, for human company, Lesli reached for the next best thing. Opening up her shoulder bag, she pulled out the little box that held her wooden flute. Screwing the pieces together deftly, she brought it to her mouth and began to play.

* * *

In a studio on Yoors street, ten blocks away, Andy Garrison turned over in his bed and opened his eyes. He'd been dreaming of fiddle music and an empty street. Even now, he thought he could hear the tune that had haunted his dreams. Andrew glanced at the alarm clock, and groaned. He had 8 o'clock classes every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Today was Thursday, and a good day to sleep in. Yet here he was, wide awake at 4 o'clock. Knowing from long experience that he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. The music still sang in his mind. Andy sighed, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He knew an all-night coffee shop a few blocks away on Dillard street. Since he was awake, he might as well go study his music theory.

As he dressed, Andy decided that Lesli's absence had woken him more than the dream. He'd gotten used to holding her at night. His arms felt empty without her familiar body nestled close to him. It explained why he'd dreamt of that music again -- he'd never forget the two of them crying together, listening to that fiddler play. All his life, Andy had been moved to tears by music. He'd been teased about it as a teenager, even by the other students in his high school orchestra. Until he'd met Lesli, he hadn't realized that other people could have the same response.

Andy slung his backpack over his shoulders and locked the door, walking to the rhythm of the music he heard. As he walked, it grew louder, calling him. At the intersection of Yoors and Dillard, he turned left, not right, towards the coffee shop. The music grew louder, and he followed it. He wasn't sure when he started to cry, or when the music changed, violin strings giving way to the higher, breathier voice of the flute.

He didn't know where the music lead until he turned the corner and saw the flute player standing beneath a grove of oak trees in somebody's front yard. Dressed in her navy pea coat and ragged jeans, her long blonde hair shining silver in the moonlight, Lesli looked more beautiful to him than ever. He walked towards her, slowly, keeping time with the stately music. She glanced up at his footsteps. Her eyes widened in recognition, but she kept on playing, following the tune to its end. Andy leaned against an oak tree, curiously unsurprised to find her here.

The last notes of music faded away, and Lesli lowered the fiddle, breaking the spell. She wiped the glimmer of tears from her cheeks, and smiled at him, a little shakily.

"What are you doing up?" she asked, as though he hadn't followed her music and found her here, in the middle of Crowsea in the hour before dawn.

He thought of asking her the same question, but instead decided to cut to the truth. "I couldn't sleep without you," he said.

Lesli glanced down, and then up, looking uncomfortable. "We need to talk," she said softly, reaching for his hand.

* * *

"Well that's great," Jilly said, carefully balancing a tray full of dirty plates as she made her way back to the kitchen. "I'm glad you finally told him. So what happens next? Lunch with your Mom?"

Lesli shook her head, crumpling up a soiled tablecloth to put in the laundry. "We decided to step back our relationship a few notches," she said.

"What?" Jilly stumbled, nearly dropping her tray. "But you two were so happy together," Jilly said. "What went wrong? Don't tell me that he freaked out when you told him about your Mom."

"No," Lesli said. "It's not that. He was really supportive. But he wondered why I hadn't told him before, and honestly, so do I. It seems like, if I loved him, I should tell him those things."

"Not necessarily," Jilly said, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. "Some things are hard to say, even when you're in love."

"I know," Lesli said. "But I wonder if I'm ready to be in a relationship. My family was so distant from each other, growing up. I'm not sure if I know how to love him the way he should be loved. To give him as much of myself as I should."

"Love doesn't come naturally to everyone," Jilly said. "It sure didn't to me. The only thing you can do is practice."

* * *

From Lesli's diary, entry dated September 20th:

I keep thinking of something Cerin told me once, the day he rescued me from Cutter.

"There are no real endings, ever -- happy or otherwise. We all have our own stories which are just a part of the one Story that binds both this world and Faerie. Sometimes we step into each other's stories -- perhaps just for a few minutes, perhaps for years -- and then we step out of them again. But all the while, the Story goes on."

I didn't understand it then, but now, I think I'm starting to. I've grown so used to people stepping into my story, then out of it again. First Granny Nell, dying when I was five years old. Then Mom, our stories parting when she couldn't reconcile her own beliefs with those parts of my story that intersect with Faerie, with magic. Dad's been stepping in and out again for as long as I can remember, really. So do the Kelledys, with their frequent touring, but I always know that they'll be back again. Given how many relationships fail, I know it's likely that Andy will step out of my story someday, too. I held myself back from him, afraid of that happening, but now . . . I'm starting to think that it might be okay.

I think of something Granny Nell told me, just before she died. She said that as long as I believe in magic, I'll always be able to remember her. I used to think that it was like a spell, that if I concentrated as hard as I could on Faerie and the Otherworld, I'd somehow be able to bring her back to me. Now I know what she really means. When she died, she just stepped out of her own story and into the larger one that binds us all together. Whenever I'm feeling sad or lonely, I just need to remember that nobody is really alone as long as we can hook into that one, big Story.

But now I need to start writing and get myself dressed. Andy and I are having dinner tonight. I haven't seen him in nearly four days -- that's the longest we've been apart since we've started dating. Maybe Jilly's right and love doesn't come naturally to everyone. But I'm a musician, and if there's one thing I know how to do, it's practice.

Finis.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Cerin's quote in the last section comes from Charles de Lint's, "Ghosts of Wind and Shadows." I also lifted some of the prose in Lesli's first diary entry from Xenacryst's prompt, "The night we were at the coffeehouse and a Cape Breton fiddler had come through town. Well, let's just say that when the dry October leaves rustle up and dance in the wind, it's like they're listening to the song of that fiddle, and I think some part of me got lost, or maybe found, that night."


End file.
